I


f I were to organize the types of things that scare me by intensity, I could visualize them in the form of a pyramid. At the bottom would be Fiction: all those horror movies, books and other forms of art that I know can’t actually harm me and that I seek out for thrills. On top of that would be Reality: my everyday existence in which the occasional thing genuinely frightens me, such as walking down a dark alley,


nearly getting into a car accident or perhaps reading a news story about a deadly new disease. Above that would be Nightmares: my nocturnal subconscious occasionally assaulting me with all manner of horrors drawn from both reality and fiction. I’ve had nightmares about drowning, monster attacks, family members returning from the grave and a grizzly bear tearing its way into my childhood home, trying to eat me. I recall one partic- ularly vivid bad dream in which someone I was close to, who had betrayed me in real life, had tied me to a chair on a stage and was literally ripping my face off in front of a crowd full of my friends and family. With physical fears, emotional angst, real-life danger and supernatural horrors all conspiring to terrorize me in the theatre of the mind, what could top Nightmares on this pyramid? There is one thing: Old Hag Syndrome. Old Hag Syndrome is the colloquial name used in Newfoundland for what is more commonly known as sleep


paralysis. According to articles I’ve read, it’s a phenomenon that happens at least once to approximately 15 to 60 percent of people (depending on what research you read), and regularly to a very small percentage of people with sleep disorders. It’s happened to me on three occasions that I recall very clearly. The first (and worst) occasion was during my teenage years while I was sleeping alone in the basement of


my grandmother’s house. In the middle of the night I woke up, barely able to breathe, as if something was pushing down on my chest; across the room I saw a dark, cloaked figure standing in the doorway. Immediately gripped by fear, I tried to move but my limbs were frozen. I was able to look around, I could hear the guttural workings of the furnace and I could see the outline of my body beneath the blankets, but no matter how des- perately I tried to will myself into action, my limbs would not obey. The panic was unbearable. My heart was racing, I was gasping, and when I tried to scream, my mouth


opened but nothing came out. After what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds, it broke. I re- gained control of my faculties and the figure had disappeared. I turned on the light, shut the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed hyperventilating. It took me the better part of an hour to calm down enough to try sleeping again. While nightmares fade, this experience has remained lodged in my memories like a black thorn. Sleep paralysis is a rare occurrence that happens in a mixed state of consciousness and unconsciousness,


when you’re partly awake during REM sleep (that time when you dream), either when waking up or falling asleep. It’s like experiencing all of the seemingly real horrors of a nightmare with the actually real physical horrors of paralysis and asphyxiation. Top of the pyramid for sure. With an effect so profound, it’s no surprise that many cultures have their own versions of Old Hag Syndrome,


related to demons, spirits or other supernatural entities pushing down on one’s chest at night. For example, in Swahili, there is the “jinamizi,” a creature on one’s chest that restricts breathing; Persians refer to a “bakhtak,” which is a dark, ghostly entity that sits on people’s chests while they dream; and Swedish, Icelandic and Old Norse folk tales refer to a nightmare-causing succubus called a “Mara.” It’s also been suggested that sleep paralysis has been misinterpreted as alien abduction or witchcraft (including fuelling the Salem Witch hysteria) and has even killed people, which seems likely when I recall how hard my heart was pounding. The most famous depiction of it can be seen in Henry Fuseli’s 1781 painting The Nightmare, which shows


an unconscious woman with a demon sitting on her chest, as a black horse with white eyes looks on (seeing glowing eyes is another reported element of sleep paralysis). As you can read in our Classic Cut (p.70), the painting has been hugely influential to the horror genre. When I see my pyramid of terror in my mind’s eye, I visualize Fuseli’s demon perched at the top, lording over my fears. If you subscribe to the philosophy of Carl Jung, you probably view sleep paralysis as an example of our “col-


lective unconsciousness” in which all of humanity shares certain archetypes – an explanation for why so many people across space and time could have such a similar experience of seeing an old hag-type figure. I find the idea that there’s a common biological process (a sleeping malfunction) that makes all of humanity susceptible to the same terrifying experience absolutely astounding. It seems to me that if our bodies are capable of generating such terror, then we really do have a natural


darkness inside all of us.Whether we suppress it or embrace it is irrelevant. The worst of it waits for us in the doorway between sleep and consciousness.


STAFF


publisher Rodrigo Gudiño


ManaGinG eDitor Monica S. Kuebler


art Director Gary Pullin


office ManaGer Jessa Sobczuk


MarketinG/aDvertisinG ManaGer


Jody Infurnari PH: 905-985-0430 FX: 905-985-4195 E: jody@rue-morgue.com


eDitor-in-chief dave alexander


associate eDitor trevor tuminski


Graphic DesiGner Justin Erickson


copy eDitor claire horsnell


financial controller Marco Pecota


intern mike beardsall


CONTRIBUTORS


STUART F. ANDREWS A.S. BERMAN JOHN W. BOWEN PHIL BROWN JAMES BURRELL PEDRO CABEZUELO PAUL CORUPE JAMES FISHER PAUL GOODIN THE GORE-MET MARK R. HASAN JUSTIN HUMPREYS PAUL KOUDOUNARIS


LIISA LADOUCEUR LAST CHANCE LANCE ANDREW LEE AARON VON LUPTON DAN MURPHY ALISON NASTASI JOSEPH O’BRIEN GEORGE PACHECO JASON PICHONSKY SEAN PLUMMER APRIL SNELLINGS DAVID WEISZ


RUE MORGUE #110 would not have been possible without the valuable assistance of Mary-Beth Hollyer, Al McMullan and Lenore the ball python.


No thanks at all to the comic book cabbage.


R.I.P. Charles Sellier Jr., David F. Friedman and Dr. Creep.


Cover: hobo with a shotgun Illustration by Gary Pullin.


Rue Morgue Magazine is published monthly (with the exception of February) and accepts no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts, photos, art or other materials. Freelance submissions accompanied by S.A.S.E. will be seriously considered and, if necessary, returned.


We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Periodical Fund (CPF) for our publishing activities. RUE MORGUE Magazine #110 ISSN 1481 – 1103 Agreement No. 40033764 Entire contents copyright MARRS MEDIA INC. 2011. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN CANADA.


dave@rue-morgue.com RM6


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